


One Night Always

by Gilded_Pleasure



Series: Good Intentions [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Arguments, Codependency, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Family Fun Night Kustard Style, Here Comes the SCHMOOP FIREHOSE, I Wanted To Write a Medium Length Story About Red’s Massive Dick, Multiverse Shenanigans, Musicians, Other, Relentlessly Horny Fluff, Sans and Alphys are BFFs, Sans/Red - Freeform, Sex Work, Sexual Histories, So dubcon, Two Idiots Figure Out How To Relationship, because drunk, i cannot resist lowered inhibitions kustard fuckn, kustard - Freeform, sex while drunk, they are ridiculously in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilded_Pleasure/pseuds/Gilded_Pleasure
Summary: The further ridickulous adventures of my comfort couple.On wheels.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: Good Intentions [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844599
Comments: 30
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

“so…you gonna tell me what _that’s_ all about?”

“what what’s about?” Red says, rotating slowly on stubby, stiffened legs that end in roller skates as he unwraps one of his pocket candies.

“when did you become a fuckin’ _bee gee_ is what’s what,” Sans chuckles.

“oh.” Red grins and huffs, then pops the candy in his mouth and talks around it. “undy-pants put a hunnerd against my bro that i’d fall on my ass.”

Sans glances across the rink over where the Undynes are hollering and having an arm-punching contest, while Papyrus sips a beverage smugly like he’s on vacation. Pike does seem to be paying more attention to Red than usual...well, for _her_. Edge is guarding the roller rink from the natural disaster of multiple Undynes opposite Paps, equally smug as he also watches Red.

Red spreads his arms and coasts in a backwards circle, then does something that very well could be the hustle back toward Sans. It would make sense, since that’s what blast-tweedling out of the speakers surrounding the roller rink they’re at. Sans had been expecting to drink and play grab-ass on a bench rinkside, not watch Red actually participating in an activity. Well, if Sans felt jilted, he could always just fondle the collar and watch Red being cute, which, you know. He doesn’t.

“guess you’ll show her, then,” Sans observes mildly.

“sure will. right up til the last five minutes when i take a dive and we split it,” Red says in the same tone. “gonna use it ta buy an even shitter fridge than what that cuntfaced lil arsonist i fucking hand-raised burned last week.”

Red whistles a bar of _Sad But True_ against the relentlessly tootling piccolo and does the hustle again. Backwards, while eating candy.

“ungrateful ass,” Red grumbles gaily, his tiny, scarred fists churning toward revenge.

“i don’t think a shittier fridge _exists_ , pumpkin," Sans admits. "but if it does, i know you’ll find it.”

Sans smiles at Red and takes another swig of his beer. Red’s sockets narrow abruptly at the bottle. Sans hears the crunch of hard candy giving way in Red’s jaws, amplified by his skull to carry over the music. Red skates closer in big, exaggerated slides. Then he squats with his arms out like a sumo wrestler right at the barricade, opening his toothy maw with an expectant expression. Sans stands and pours beer into Red’s mouth, laughing helplessly. He doesn’t even close his mouth to swallow; it’s like pouring it down the fucking sink or something. Also weirdly hot?

“have i told you lately that you’re filthy?” Nice and quiet, so only Red hears.

Red gargles lasciviously, then snaps his teeth like a bear trap behind the last splosh of beer. He pops his tongue in satisfaction, letting out a sated sigh identical to the ones he makes against Sans’s pelvis after he swallows his load.

“ _you_ fuckin’ _love_ it,” Red growls outrageously, scarlet eyes flaring crimson out of nowhere. Sans’s face is on fire as he maintains belligerent eye contact and rolls away backwards. Still squatting. Smart money says Red was already buzzed, and is now probably drunk.

His soul flutters on L-shaped wings anyway as Red finally stands, then starts doing a spread eagle pirouette thing in the middle of the right-of-way traffic. Everyone starts scowling and clattering to get around him, and Sans can’t help a soft smile stealing over his face. Yeah, that’s his baby. Efficiently annoying as many people as possible with minimum effort.

“aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA……!!!!” approaches Sans from behind. He turns and grins in relief that he won’t have to _get_ up in order to _catch_ up. He just has to wait a minute for his fellow practitioner of low-impact friendship entertainment to deliver the goods. Which he sent her off for long enough ago, he wasn’t sure she’d survived the trip there and back again.

Sure enough, a hunched-over Alphys on wheels coasts to a gently screaming stop slightly past him, both beer-laden fists held out stiffly in front of her to bump-clink benignly against the barricade.

“H-h-h-holy shit,” she pants, sounding thrilled. “I’m _skating_!”

“you sure are, al,” Sans giggles. “you sharing, too?”

“Right! Yes!” Alphys huffs a grin at him, big lizard eyes glistening with accomplishment and mild inebriation. Then she tries to straighten, and their glisten renews with alarm.

No big. Sans is already up and grabbing her beery fists to keep her from busting her tail. She has herself a sheepish chuckle, then lets Sans seat her neatly on the bench, where it’s safe.

Cruising with Al is more fun when they both have sweet armfuls to go home with. Mostly because they don’t bother being subtle about it anymore, and they’ve always had similar tastes. They both like em big, and yet, when Red notices the cruising and starts acting up about it, Alphys switches her attention, too.

“You know…I th-th-think I get it.” Alphys sways close and bumps an affectionate shoulder against his, having joined in Sans’s catch-up plans (if not his _ketchup_ plans. Sans has a fist for each bottle).

“get what?”

“The ap-p-peal,”she drawls suggestively. “For you, at l-least.”

Sans pulls another round out of the phone in his pocket, sets Alphys’s on the bench.

“heh. guess i just fell for some smoke and a mirror,” he chuckles, although Red’s cigar is whole and unsmoken as he gyrates rhythmically closer with surprising grace. Or maybe he just forgot to light it, who knows. Red doffs his coat with a slinky little shrug like a striptease. Sans invisibly braces himself; it whaps him across the face and stays there. “oldest trick in the book, he continues to Alphys from beneath it. She laughs and removes it for him.

“thanks, alphie,” he says sincerely. “i was kinda enjoying the show.”

“Admit I’m the b-best wingman you’ve ever h-h-had,” Alphys demands archly.

“you’re the _only_ man for me, al,” Sans gushes. She’s just as down for some fun and games, even when it’s just fancy foreplay with his...whatever he and Red are. Sweeties?

“H-he’s really p-pulling out all the stops, Sans. What’s your m-m-move?”

Sans hums speculatively. Red’s spinning-splits with his ass in the air, arms bare and sweaty as he clasps his ankles, is definitely impressive, but…

“gonna stick with my signature for now.” Doing nothing, which has worked out quite well for him in his slutterous lifetime. “say, where are we at in the uh, space vampire story? did i turn red to the dark side yet?”

“Oh, I s-started a new one.” The Alphyses trade horny friend-fiction for fun, and as far as Sans knows, no one really knows about it. Well, except him, maybe. Al never finishes hers, except when she does. “Th-this time you’re a mermaid, and R-red’s a f-f-filthy rich collector of oddities.” She giggles huskily.

“emphasis on filthy?”

“You know it. Let’s j-just say, he sh-sh-should be more worried about what happens wh-when it’s time for you to l-l-lay your eggs.”

“….wow. guess a steady diet of caviar tends to give you a hankering, huh?”

Alphys laughs uproariously, then demands another beer. Sans gives it up easy, and….huh. Seems like something distracted Red from the mostly clothed sex show on wheels he’s been putting on. Well, the song just changed; maybe it's that. Or maybe the exertion’s hurrying the beer through his system, and he’s too drunk to remember to be a dick. He’s just going around the track faster and faster, effortlessly dodging around the slower patrons, which are all of them.

“What does h-h-he have to d-do to f-f-finally get a rise out of you, Sans? Whatever it is at this p-point, it c-c-can’t be legal…”

But that’s the thing. Red knows exactly what Sans can never and will never be able to resist. Alphys thought Red pulled out all the stops earlier? Not even close. This is Red’s _real_ trump card: letting it all go and just enjoying himself.

 _Being_ himself.

“he doesn’t have to do anything, al,” Sans half-whispers.

He can’t tear his eyes away from Red, effortlessly speeding far past what’s reasonable or safe to ABBA so loud the system’s warping the vocal.There he goes again, barreling past the spot where Sans is like a tiny freight train throwing off wind. His sockets are shut and his hands clasped behind his back, face the closest he gets to ecstatic outside the bedroom. Sans gets a big, horny whiff of grape candies and beer, clean-sweaty bones and mustard underneath it all.

Another pass; a split second glimpse of Red’s expression burns into his soul, like a torn and tempest-tost page of Sans’s favorite book slapping him in the face in a faraway city. Impossible odds that it found him; now it’s all he can see. Yeah, Red _loves_ this song. He just had to wait for his moment, and Sans is already fucking ruined.

He stands at last, rolling forward on the tiny-tot skates Papyrus insisted on applying to his feet at the start of the night.

“….well. nothing but be mine and like it,” he adds in a daze, suspiciously hoarse as he coasts through the nearest opening in the barricade to claim his prize. Or be claimed. He’s not picky, and that’s a competition where everyone wins. Does mean he'll ever get sick of playing, though.

In no time at all Sans has caught up, hovering a scant few inches in formation behind Red. So close he can see the spots he's sweating through his thin cotton band shirt, its collar rucked back and tangled under some vertebral processes from all his….exertion. Mmm.

“heya, handsome,” Sans purrs, imagining Red’s smug, unsurprised grin on the frontside. “you come here often?”

“not yet,” Red answers, borrowing Sans’s tone yet again, his voice just that tiny bit rougher. “you wanna meet up under the hot dog counter and compromise my roller rink virtue?”

Sans inches closer in hot pursuit. His hands are pocketed, body _seeming_ perfectly still as they whip around the rink. His only movement is a constant, tense s-curve with his skate-supported ankles, every bit of strength and momentum in his body channeled there with razor precision. He’s close enough he has to spread his legs a bit to keep from touching.

“if you think i’m gonna be satisfied with a quickie tonight, there’s a whole world of _uppance_ about to come your way,” Sans gushes recklessly. “after that little floor show, might be best to remind you who you’ve been saving the last dance for.”

“mmmn….” Red’s candy scented exhale makes Sans’s nasal cavity flare hard with want. “promises, promises...” Sans bathes in the wake of heat wicking from Red’s body, his pelvis seeming to draw it in like a magnet. Sans has to concentrate to keep the rating PG-13, although he’s got a feeling they’re already skirting an R. Red makes another breathy not-a-word noise, and Sans’s soul flutters with anticipation.

“well, how bout we head somewhere more suitable ta yer delicate sensibilities, and you can take yer chances on whether or not i’ll put out.”

“long as i don’t have ta _pull_ out,” Sans growls so that his breath gusts down Red’s shirt collar. “but, uh. you almost forgot the most important part, pumpkin,” Sans exhales even harder, watches Red trying to suppress a shiver.

And that’s when Sans trips him.

“you wouldn’t make your sweetie go _fridgeless_ , now, wouldja?” Sans grins, coasting to a slow stop over Red lying flat on his astounded ass between the rolling V of his legs. He can see the wet spot in the crotch of Red’s shorts, and his grin sharpens with triumph. Nothing but winners here, yeah, but Sans decides he just won _more_.

Sans winks and mimes a pratfall down on top of Red, but instead of hard-polished flooring, his elbows catch him on their nice, bouncy mattress at home. He leans up right away, letting his hoodie slither off his shoulders as he licks his teeth at Red's recovering expression.

"so, what's my prize for doing something impossible?" Sans doesn't bother hiding his anticipatory shiver. "gonna have to pull out the whole bag of tricks for this one, babe."

"impossible my _ass_ ," Red purrs. His eyes wiggle adoringly at Sans's hands as he pretends to bounce massive, invisible titties in front of his own puffed-out chest. "anyone coulda tripped me, i'm sloppier than a fiddler's bitch."

Sans throws his head back, pealing with soused laughter so unrestrained the collar's buckle jangles. Then he pins Red's pelvis under his and bends down close enough to kiss, caging him in with his arms and watching his eyes get all big and hot.

"i can tip your apple cart anytime i _want_ , pumpkin, but _that_ ain't what i meant." Red's breath shudders out against his teeth, all that sweet candy just for _Sans_ now. " _you_ said you were gonna take a _dive_ ," he gushes, making his sockets big and round for this round's finale. 

"....and i just made an _honest man_ outta you."


	2. Chapter 2

Red’s predictable response is, of course, to tip _Sans’s_ apple cart.

Sans whoops as Red flips him onto his back, then shudders in satisfaction when bulky heat and hard bones press him into the mattress. His caresses are both sloppy and careful, which is a pretty bonerlicious combo as far as Sans is concerned. Sans likes it tipsy, though Red won’t unless it’s like tonight, drinking and having fun together. Not when it’s only Sans, especially not if Red came to get him from Grillby’s. Sans doesn’t want to think about that, and it slips right away under Red’s heavy petting. Yeah, that’s why he likes this. Easier to not think about shit.

He puts a hand under the back of Sans’s neck so he can keep him equally available for lusty grins, filthy whispers, and deep, soulful kisses that leave Sans panting. His other hand is down Sans’s shorts, winding him up like crazy. Sans’s breath catches when he teases gently at the dense tangle of Sans’s unformed magic instead of just stroking the outside.

The inside tends to stay closed when when his junk’s not shaped like anything in particular, but you just have to want it to open for someone who also wants it to. Sans makes it difficult and drags it out, because he likes the feel of it. Red does too, since they have the same thing down there, though he can’t last as long. He says it reminds him of a slimy ball of infinitely divisible yarn when he’s feeling especially romantic, and Sans chuckle-hums amusement around Red’s tongue.

Red’s cheatyfingers finally pick his lock mid-kiss. Sans has to roll his face away to suck in air, but he opens his legs and tilts his pelvis up encouragingly. Red purrs wordless approval, nibbling Sans’s mandible as he works his fingers into him. Sans’s movements grow more enthusiastic, and the inside of his genitalia gets wetter around Red’s scarred, nubbled fingers. Eventually Sans is riding his hand from underneath, and Red adds a thing where he gently squeezes all of him like a stress ball. From inside. Sans gasps, then grunts softly as his whole pelvis shudders.

“you like that, huh?”

Sans opens his sockets for that husky whisper, and is treated to a split second of naked longing on Red’s face.

“h-heh….you need something, pumpkin?” He goes for playful, but he’s riding too high on the primo fingerbang and it comes out raw as hell. Red keeps his expression neutral-horny, but his fingers give him away. Sans moans when they curve into unexpected depths, and that does Red in.

“c’n i get inside you, sweetheart?”

Sans has to close his sockets again. It’s outrageously sincere, and Sans’s maxilla creases into an expression he’s not sure he’s ever felt his face make before. He can _hear_ himself rattle.

“well, since you asked me so nice...”

(Which, come to think of it, he’s not sure Red ever _has_. Asked. Sans takes another peek, struck by how _intensely_ Red wants him; all unprompted, too. Usually Sans has to flop over and holler like a drill sergeant to get a deep fuck around here.)

“...yeah. just uh, go easy,” Sans says, makes a short noise to clear suddenly thick magic in his skull. “i got th-that gig tomorrow…” Just some freestyle at Grillby’s, nothing big. It’s important to him because it’s _not_ important, and…the liquor might’ve numbed him up. He doesn’t play well when he’s shifting on his stool, nor does he relish the idea of being Red’s captive audience if he stays home to baby his pelvis. Sans still leaks magic sometimes after Red fucks him, which isn’t anywhere near as often as the other way around. The leaking bothers Red, and he seems to think it’s because he’s not good at it (which is absurd), so he makes a point of ragging on Sans about being on the rag. Sure, Sans loves him, but that doesn’t negate his obnoxious fuckface powers.

Sans hums with pleasure as Red’s free hand rasps along the side of his face in a voluptuous caress. It stays there until Sans opens his sockets again. Red’s expression says he’s got Sans right where he wants him, under that spiky paw of his. It’s kinda hot.

“thinkin’ we need to _kiss_ ,” Red says, slipping his phalanges out of Sans’s slicked-up junk.

Sans blinks at the emphasis, then giggles. Keep It Simple, Stupid.

He means their skeleton business, which makes sense since they’re a little more soused than usual. Call dibs on something and stick with it, instead of the fun-but-tricksy amorphous genital blobs.

“heh….you’re prob’ly right,” Sans agrees. “habout cock n puss?”

A long, beery exhale emerges from Red’s suddenly enigmatic expression. “i do th’cock, you do the puss?”

“eh, i think i’ll let _you_ do my puss,” Sans chuckles, then knits his brow to concentrate. The Magnificent Cunto won’t do; he wants the clit outside so it doesn’t get crushed by whatever ri _dick_ ulous donger Red ends up with. Takes longer cause he’s hammered, but….yeah, here comes good ol’ puss-puss.

(That’s what Sans offers most often when they want an easy quickie. Red calls his trusty lil anemone-thing Eggbert, and Sans’s mouth and hands make it come like crazy. Or Red does that thing to himself, and just _watching_ him makes Sans go absolutely-)

He opens his sockets quickly when Red palms Sans’s junk in an evaluating way, but he grunts something about keeping it compatible. Once they’re set they can stop thinking about it, as opposed to their high-maintenance usual.

Sans sneakily works his mouth for moisture as they paw off the remainder of their clothes, but Red’s gallant attempt to de-skate them both is stymied by his instant frustration with the double knots. Sans gasps in actual surprise (and a dismaying degree of arousal) when Red growls, shoves his fist behind the mattress, and pulls out a goddamn _butterfly knife_.

Red pauses when he sees Sans’s expression, because of course he does. He skewers him with a grin that makes the blade seem dull, rolls it around his fingers a few times, then slaps the handles together and fucking _licks_ it. Then he kneels up, his not-as-massive-as-expected cock bouncing close enough to his knifehand Sans’s mouth goes dry again.

“fuckin’ _hell!_ ” Sans chokes as Red slits his laces, twin thumps as he kicks them to the floor like they did him dirty. “i’m not catching your fingers _or_ your dick for you when you cut em off, asshole,” he manages, but Red just laughs at him as he does the same on his own skates. Sans grabs Red while he’s returning it, flips him around and pushes him sitting against the wall. Red just laughs at him, tilts his skull coquettishly with a smoldering sidelong glance. He even makes a mock-demure gesture with uplifted arms, as if Sans is going to pin his wrists against the wall and have his way.

Nah, he has other plans, but he _is_ going to have his way. He gives Red a brazen wink to _tip_ him off, then flops sideways and takes the tip of Red’s dick in his mouth. An appreciative hum exits Sans’s nasal cavity, and Red’s legs twitch. He grabs his hips and pins those instead, decides to investigate exactly what Red wants to stick up Sans’s puss…yeah, see if it passes muster. It’s warm and firm, and he gets a tiny blurt of Red’s familiar taste when he sucks on it.

In fact, the shape seems…familiar-ish? Sans probably got hints of it going down on him before, but this is like, all the way a _specific_ dick. Sans belatedly remembers he has one just like it, smaller without LV bulking up his magic. Blunt-tipped with delicate ridges and a tender flap around the crown, fun for his tongue to play with. Sans _was_ just teasing… now maybe he wants to do this for a minute. Heh.

A curse gushes out of Red as Sans takes him deeper, and his hand appears on the back of Sans’s ribcage. His attention abruptly narrows to laser focus on how exciting it is for Red to have a dick, and to like sucking it as much as he apparently does.

It’s not as soft as his plush magic, not as hard as his bones. Getting harder now, since apparently it still had some growing to do. Ahh, right...the big’uns are like that. _Now_ it’s massive as expected. Sans’s jaw creaks around his smile, but he never minds a challenge. Sans bobs his head a few times, just for the satisfaction of feeling its stiffening weight gliding on his tongue.

That’s when Red starts making the big, blissful huffs Sans loves. That sound means Red’s at about an 8; growls and babbling are an eleven. Heh. Good to know Sans hasn’t lost his touch. Red chokes to trembling silence right along with Sans when he takes him deep as he can, exhales a faint little _hoo_ sound as he draws up slow. Red’s taste fills his mouth with salt and spice, and Sans moans at the unexpected thrill of Red making _new_ noises for him.

When his enthusiasm makes Red’s legs tremble in warning, Sans recalls their fancy plans and eases up.

“that’s it, baby,” Red whispers thickly, the legshake creeping into his voice as he strokes Sans’s back. “don’ lemme pop off in yer mouth like you know i wanna….” Sans peeks up and sees Red’s skull lolled back against the wall, jagged jaws hanging open around his softening pants. Sans just holds him in his mouth, then suckles gently. Red shivers and grunts, and Sans tastes him again.

“fuck yeah,” Red breathes in a daze, “make me work for it...”

Okay, that’s just cheating. Red always knows how to yankle Sans’s crankle no matter the sitch. He pulls off with a wet gasp, intending to say...something, probably. He should have known the daze was a trap.

Red’s got him turtled in a hot second, and when it comes to lick chicken, Sans can’t hold a candle. Red always eats him out like he’s been starving for Sans’s puss-puss his entire fucking life. It’s like Red’s got three tongues to his one, waggling at his clit, tonguing his opening, and diddling everything between at the same time. Unlike _Red_ , Sans isn’t great at holding off. And unlike _Sans_ , Red doesn’t ease up after a minute.

“red…!” Red just makes a smug-scolding _ahh-_ _ah_ sound, gripping his trembling femurs to ease their pincer on his skull. Sans feels bad because Red doesn’t like getting messed with when he goes down, and Sans is usually better about that. His concentration isn’t all that breaks. “red, i’m gonna- _ooh_ -!”

Sans comes in a gush on Red’s lithe tongue, pelvis jerking to the music of Red’s nasal chuckle. But his peak ebbs perfectly into smoldering need, and Red pushes his femurs back apart to use his tongue inside him. Sans sighs and shudders as Red opens him up with it, then lies back and enjoys the show. Red looks like a booby-trapped pez dispenser when he opens his mouth like this, fat tongue filling his jaw side to side as it darts out over and over. Yeah, this tonguefucking means business. He’s pretty sure this is his prelude to a k.i.s.s.

Sure enough, as soon as he pulls off Red slither-plods up onto him like a fucking gila monster, gliding his length along Sans’s sodden magic as he licks his teeth. A delighted curse shudders out of Sans, because that was hot as hell. Red winks because he knows it, then gives him a quick, Sans-flavored smooch as he rocks his stupidly big dick against him. He could probably get off again just like that...but Red’s raring to go, and Sans likes where this headed.

“ya wan’ it, sweetheart?” Red purr-slurs, grabbing his cock to waggle the head across Sans’s clit. His femurs jerk together to still him, because it’s too sensitive for that. Sans nips at Red’s chin in censure, then falls back, stretches, and lets his bent knees flop out.

“stick it to me,” Sans sighs happily. The press of its broad head increases as Red angles it down to innie part. Red’s bulky middle smushes Sans pleasantly as he plants the other elbow with a lazy groan, but his attempt to penetrate him in the same motion retreats when Sans squirms away.

Sans does a quick, dismissive headshake, and Red huffs in sheepish understanding when Sans reaches down to pull the flappy bits that got pinched out of the way. He gives Red’s hip a reassuring pat on the way out: no harm, no foul.

“where’s the beef, huh?” Red grins. He lies down on Sans to brace him and tucks his face against the collar. The tip squares this time and opens Sans right up. Red lets out a slow, tight exhale, then rolls his hips to give him the shaft. There’s an even sharper pinch that makes Sans jump, but when Sans wrestles a hand back down to check, the way’s still clear. Well, whatever, by then it’s gone. Sans smiles and hugs Red, gets nuzzled sweetly and doesn’t worry about anything.

Red’s breathing goes all shaky as he fills him up in even slower pulses, and Sans’s smile broadens. Goes in easier than Sans expected, and feels better too. But then it _keeps_ going in, and…keeps going. And then a little more, despite there not being more of Sans to take it. Sans sure doesn’t mind a little spice with his sugar on weekends, but this is starting to make his pelvis creak into next-day territory.

A whimper escapes him, and he lets his skull loll to the side until it rests against comforting, sweaty bone. The pressure stops increasing, and there’s a patient kiss against his jaw as Red eases back…but the surface of Sans’s magic just kinda goes with it. It’s like the snug fit smashed all the wet from between them.

“y’okay, sweetness?” Red murmurs and leans up. Sans lets out a wiggly noise he decides was a laugh.

“it’s just big, dude,” he exhales through a weak smile. “you, uh...” Sans cracks a socket and looks down. Yeesh. Well, he took most of it.

“that’s good fer me,” Red assures him. He stays on his elbows and doesn’t try and put any more in there. “yeah, you always feel _so_ …fuckin’ _good_...” Sans shuts his sockets and grits his teeth as Red tries some nudging. It’s always big, but this is both...less big, more big, and really different. Feels kinda weird having Red inside him so separately, like they’re crammed into a gym locker together.

“you gotta relax a lil, sweetheart,” Red grunts, then exhales explosively. “fuck, you’re tight…”

Red nuzzles the collar and absently narrates his dick’s adventure; Sans loves it. Okay, maybe a little cutesy bullshit makes a nice complement to being stuffed like a fucking eclair. Red’s crooning soothes him, but when he moves there’s still no _slide_ in there. When Red reaches down Sans thinks he’s going for his clit, but it works between Sans and the mattress, fingers curling around Sans’s spine. His thumb finds some kinda _spot_ , and Sans gasps as a bolt of sensation darts down to melt in his pelvis.

“there ya go…jus’ relax for me, baby…”

Sans whimpers again as he doesn’t, just gets so wet it doesn’t matter anymore. Red’s dick slips back a stuttery inch or two, then glides on the way back in. Red’s panting gets vocal as he eases around inside. Soft, breathy sounds he doesn’t usually make, so Sans takes a peek. Red’s expression says _yeah_ _,_ _it’s_ _almost as if_ _i_ _like fucking you_ , but he’s flushed to hell and his eyes wibble with his mysterious Red-feelings. That’s when Sans realizes he’s kneading Red’s upper arms in a pattern, and Red’s following it.

It falters once he thinks about it, of course, but then Red’s mouth is on his and there’s nothing but non-acronym kissing. Sans’s sockets scrunch as the push and pull inside him lengthens, but those breathy noises keep getting tighter until Red _moans_ urgently in his mouth. That’s another new noise, all smooth instead of growly. Sans hugs Red harder, soul fluttering with renewed interest. When he tries moving his pelvis, Red moans _again_.

His unusual excitement is contagious, and the stuffed feeling in Sans’s puss-puss melts into greedy warmth. When Red pushes into _that_ , it sparks something more like how Sans usually feels when they fuck. Still real different, though, and he suddenly sees the appeal. Red’s cock is thick and hot inside him, its insistent glide terminating in a deep, hard nudge where Sans bottoms out.

Sans’s playful humping turns to a leg hooked over Red’s pelvis to guide it _there_ , makes the spark roar right up into his favorite flame. Although his tension never went anywhere. Instead it vibrates so fiercely Sans’s mouth tries to speak, disconnected from the fact that it’s already occupied. Red leans up, but Sans is kinda focused on internal matters at the moment. His sockets stay scrunched, and his mouth just hangs open.

“want help gettin’ yours, tomatahpie?” Red’s tender words are tight with pleasure as a scarred finger brushes the action, but before he can do anything, his next thrust feels like it ignites Sans’s pelvis and runs up his spine like a fuse.

“oh fuck,” Sans pants deliriously, “this’s-”

Sans’s orgasm interrupts him so rudely he bites off his usual noise, just a yip as his pelvis jerks.

“shit, _yeah_ ,” Red gushes, grabbing Sans’s ilium instead to rock him insistently on his dick. His peak melts like honeybutter around Red’s girth, dragging his release out long and slow. _That_ gets the weird sound out of him, alright. Seems like coming this way takes a while, and Sans sobs helplessly through clenched teeth.

He still hears Red growling, “that’s it, come on me,” as if Sans might take the option of like, _not_ doing that. His leg curls to rattle between Red’s arm and ribcage as the storm of sensation finally ebbs...right back into the hungry warmth.

Then Red _s_ _tops_ , and _no_.

“need a sec? y-”

“c’m _on,_ asshole, _fuck_ me,” Sans growls breathlessly, attempting a grind with his shaky pelvis. Then he remembers his commitment to stop being a horrible little dick-tater when Red tops, and what ends up coming out is, “p-please…?”

Red _keens_ , his body curling back down onto him. Fingers scrabble over Sans’s humerus, then his hip, then back up to pet his skull over and over. A memory soaks through the alcohol: Red’s reminding Sans of their first time on the couch. Trying to hold Sans _more_ , even though he can’t, and….hoo, that’s some oomph downtown all of a sudden. Apparently Sans found the _magic_ word. Heh. It’s not rough, but Red’s enthusiasm makes Sans try tilting his pelvis down to accommodate.

“fuh-! fuckin’ _stars_ , jus’ like that,” Red gasps toothily, so excited Sans’s skull prickles with sudden sweat. Scarred fingers find the spine-spot again, and Sans is suddenly so wet it’s squelching. “thass it, baby…i knew ya’d take it fer me,” Red gushes, “jus’ lie back n lemme feel ya—a-ah-! _fuck_ yeah, squeeze my cock...”

Well, uh. Goddamn. Instinct makes Sans try lift Red’s face, but when he resists Sans gives up in favor of enjoying the fucking he’d politely requested. It’s thorough but still relatively gentle, and Red’s little trick seriously greased the works. Sans squirms a bit to see if he can hit a spot he vaguely remembers enjoying on his own. He can, and Sans finds himself at the edge again. His swimming skull warns him off rubbing out a third, but Red’s ragged panting fills his ribcage, increasingly desperate. He’s actually gotta take it out if he wants Sans to suck him off.

Sans’s fingers journey back to his chin. Time to see if he can spend the same dollar twice.

“... _please_ , baby…?”

He hesitates, but Red finally reveals his face along with why he was hiding it. He’s fucking _wrecked_. It’s not just the ‘please’ thing, although that’s certainly a chicken-dinner level winner. Sans squints to counter his inebriation; Red’s teeth hang open, mandible jutting just a little. His brow’s furrowed but lifted, sweat beading and joining to trickle down scarred bone. But what really slaps Sans in the soul is that it’s the same expression from the rink earlier, when he let it all go and just enjoyed himself. Stopped trying to be sexy, stopped worrying about other shit and just...enjoyed himself.

Sans huffs in awe as his soul flutters, his tipsy mind replaying the dancing motes of light on Red’s skull from the cheesy disco ball. Red whines and clacks his sockets shut around eyes swollen with love-lust. But he doesn’t stop pushing his cock into Sans over and over…because he fucking _loves_ this.

Red loves using his _dic_ _k_.

And he is _shy_ about it.

Sans crows in delight, both hands caressing Red’s sweaty skull like a long-coveted claw machine prize. Red turns his crumpled features into Sans’s palm. He hasn’t lost rhythm once, and Sans decides Red is really good at cock and puss. His control’s better, he does those moans, and his dick feels _amazing_ now. Like the more Sans gets, the more he wants. His hips move, and Red rattles hard against him for a long moment, ducking his skull once more. Sans isn’t teetering by himself, that’s for sure.

Oh, right. That was the point.

“whatcha need, pumpkin?”

“wanna come in you so bad,” Red coughs, and Sans feels his own expression crease with conflict. He wants that too, but. His _pelvis_. It’s fantastic how it is, but any harder? (Or taking the _rest_ of that monster?) Whole nother story. Red opens his sockets as soon as Sans falters, and somehow manages to slow his roll.

“i’ll be so easy with you, baby.” The warble in Red’s voice wets the corners of Sans’s sockets. “l...lemme show ya...” Red shifts heavily and arches over him, then yanks a pillow down and shoves his skull there to help him balance. After a second, Sans feels the circle of Red’s fingers patter around the rim of his cunt.

Red wants to jack off… _into_ him? That’s kinda…ehh...

“...who’s gotta da button?” Red wheedles absently in one of the corny voices he does, startling a breathless laugh out of Sans.

Red’s words melt whatever that unpleasant feeling was trying to be, and Sans fills up with tenderness instead. His _button_ is what Red calls his clit, or whatever else he touches (or wants touched) to help him along when they fuck regular instead of deep. Red always says something cute about it, like _must be chilly in here,_ _we_ _gotta button up_.

Red starts thrusting again in a gentler rhythm than his hand’s setting, which is impressive. Sans spreads his legs to give him space, curls his arms up over him protectively when he shudders. Yeah, Red’s not trying to do anything weird to Sans; he’s just bridging their needs with some manual labor. His grip angles it, and now that Sans gets what’s happening, it feels even _better_ this way. Red gets briefly vigorous, then eases up.

“izzit okay?” Red mumbles, suddenly shy again. “you don’ gotta-”

“it’s _awesome_ ,” Sans gushes, canting his hips down so his clit bumps Red’s fingers. Red’s dick jabs hard for a second, but he drags himself back into rhythm and does that _moan_ again. Sans updates his mental review of whatever this is to _hell yes_. Red’s other arm tightens under Sans’s shoulders to clutch him close, and Red starts babbling as his hand speeds up.

“can’t take it wh….when ya _do_ that, sweetheart, ‘s g-gonna make me-” he chokes it off.

“gonna come?” Sans pants, smugly rolling his pelvis.

Red’s voice breaks in the middle of _yeah_ as he pulls further out, his hand working furiously enough to slap against Sans’s sodden labia. Then it presses flush against him, and he drives his dick through his trembling fist with a breathless growl. Just a few hard thrusts with Red’s hand as a spacer, and Sans gasps at a bloom of wet heat inside him. If Red makes any sound, it’s drowned out when Sans coos in surprise. He’s not sure if it’s a dick thing, or if he just can’t feel that part as much after Red’s been railing him to bonemeal for like half an hour with the blob.

Doesn’t care, either, because now Sans can’t think about anything except how bad _he_ wants to come. Red’s beached full-weight on him and heaving for breath, but he gasps and jerks when Sans’s puss clenches greedily. Makes Sans realize all over just how badly Red had _wanted_ that. Sans needs to rub it out since it seems Red’s ding dong _done_ , but he can’t concentrate to get his fuck-drunk arm through the fat press of magic at their middles.

“holy shit,” Red bleats against him, shifting heavily to rebalance. Sans cries out when Red slips his own clever thumb alongside his clit. Red’s light, insistent petting stokes a fire already well on its way to _bon_ status despite Red’s dick softening. Rather than being a hindrance, it lets him stuff the rest of it in there. Red swoops in to steal a sloppy kiss and baptize him with sweat, gives back a few squishy-stiff pokes inside. That’ll do it. Sans actually stays conscious for his whole orgasm despite it being the lucky hat trick, tasting Red’s subvocal growl vibrating against his tongue.

“holy shit,” Sans returns in kind once he pulls away: their top tier review. They both got off hard, and Sans doesn’t even feel like he died or anything (though that has its charms). His legs are left with just enough oomph to tense against Red’s plan for immediate withdrawal.

“wait a sec,” Sans wheezes, and Red’s face just...goes limp.

He sets his broad chin on Sans’s sternum and stares at him with the big-feelings expression, wibbly eyes and lax features making him look almost young. Sans lets him, catching his breath as his tipsy mind swirls to the time on the couch again. The first time Sans really saw this look for what it _is_ , and….huh. Come to think of it, that had been Red’s dick, too. They’d spent the first few fucks politely offering each other generic genitals for mouths and hands; by the time they bothered rubbing them together, they’d gotten fancy and let em change however. He’s pretty sure this is the first time Red’s used his cock since then. Well, it’s definitely the first time Sans put one _inside_ puss-puss, and it turns out he’s a big fan. Who knew.

Red finally shifts with the sated sigh that gives Sans wet dreams, and Sans feels cloth under their junk. Red pulls out and wipes himself in the same practiced motion, flips the cloth to a dry spot, then presses it against Sans. Sans grins blearily up at Red, absolutely enamored. He loves being the beneficiary of Red’s bag of tricks. The spine spot that made him turbo-wet or whatever, the wipe-and-flip….and the jacking-his-button thing, too. Sans trusted him, and he made it good. He’s just… _so_ fucking good.

“shut yer pie hole,” Red says, flushing. Apparently Sans said the last part aloud, but Red’s still loose enough not to get _too_ cranky over it. Nice. Making Red blush isn’t easy, and he cherishes these little moments.

They both resentfully guzzle two bottles of water, one for the drunk and one for the fuck. Neither of them are water fans, but being able to lift his head tomorrow’s a priority. Sans is more than ready to drift off, but Red keeps evaluating him in that way that doesn’t seem like he is. But he is.

Sans submits to being rewrapped by the bone kraken, but keeps his head tilted back to keep an eye. Red’s hooded gaze rests on the collar, Sans’s expression square in his peripheral vision. The line of his jaw is firmer than it should be after that much beer, a fuck that good, and a date that fun. Maybe he’s more pissed about the fridge than Sans thought.

“something chappin’ your ass, pumpkin?” Sans asks muzzily, which is his first mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans tries to pull his smooth-it-over moves, but he should have known better once Red opens his trap.
> 
> So, if you’re wondering where in the timeline this is, we’re somewhere between chapter 2 and 3 of The Long Haul. So. There are still a lot of speedbumps they’re going over, and they often do not deal with things in healthy ways. These are two sexually experienced social engineers upon whom I have bestowed hella baggage. Neither have ever been in a committed relationship.

“…just wondered what changed yer mind.”

Sans knows exactly what he means, but he didn’t think Red could see his face during that part. A cool pang wobbles his soul. He didn’t anticipate Red having a problem with the fucking ( _with Sans_ ), so he stalls.

“bout what?”

Red briefly jerks off Sans’s femur, which he was already gripping.

“weren’t too keen at first, but it grew on ya real quick.”

“just…that’s real fancy fretwork,” Sans evades, like he does when Red won’t like the answer. “guess i wondered why you never did it before.”

“you never asked for my dick before,” Red says, like he does when Sans won’t like the answer and Red’s telling him anyways. “can’t really do it th’other way.”

Sans absorbs the part between the words, which is that Red would have waited until he _did_ ask. He thought Sans didn’t _want_ his _dick_? That’s so unexpected Sans trips over it and tumbles into the honesty pit.

“if you wanted to fuck me like that, why didn’t you? toldja i’m not picky,” he blurts.

Red’s silence is baffling until Sans gets that’s the point. Saying something doesn’t make it true, and they just _did_ something Sans is picky about.

“i let you top,” Sans protests, stung. “is there some special reason you thought i don’t like dick? i’ve sucked plenty, dude.”

“never thought about it,” Red lies, smooth as greased eggs. And that’s when Sans realizes they’re both still inebriated, and he’s already been pushing Red too far on something. For several sentences past when he usually would have let it go.

That was the second mistake, and the third was probably bringing up the dicks he’d sucked. Red doesn’t talk about his previous bangs, so it can be assumed he doesn’t want to hear about Sans’s.

He still lets Sans roll him on his back so he can occupy some prime tiddy-spot real estate with his dome. (That’s where he intends to put it, so that’s where it goes instead of clacking on ribs. Same way they can fondle bellies, then reach in to touch spines if they want. Even other monsters think Sans’s body is cool as hell, and it is. The plenty-of-dicks thing was definitely true.)

Fell monsters don’t put stock in words like _sorry_ , not on their own. If your words take something from someone, your words have to give something back. Sans offers the real answer to Red’s question.

“i dunno why it put me off,” Sans whispers, shamelessly sponging comfort from Red’s plump magic under his cheek despite their conflict. As usual, saying it helps him figure it out. It’s why he doesn’t unless he has to. “for a second it was like i was some hole you were jackin’ off into, and i wasn’t too sure how i felt ‘bout that. then you said somethin’ about your button, and that made it seem more like we always do it, i guess? i didn’t know you could…”

Sans stops talking and starts to lean up, because Red went stone still. Red palms his skull to keep him down, and Sans cautiously settles.

“...fuckin’ idiot,” Red breathes angrily. Sans can hear Red’s fingers rasping over his teeth. “we don’t hold the shape.”

“what, is _that_ a problem now, too?” Alright, Sans is officially upset at this point. He _gets_ it, Sans is touchy about getting fucked sometimes, Red doesn’t have to keep twisting his fucking nuts-

“ain’t your problem,” Red clarifies quickly.

Teeth clack gently against the crown of Sans’s skull, a chaste kiss derailing Sans’s spiral.

“ _i’m_ an idiot, sweetness,” Red whispers. Sans hears the chagrin now, and Red kisses again and again. (He started calling him ‘sweetness’ to mix it up after the SweetTart candy incident, which Sans has mentally bronzed as his greatest pun.) Sans melts like a tablet of sour sugar-chalk, and so does a lot of his hurt. Red lets him up this time, and Sans smiles hesitantly. Red can be as pissed as he wants if it’s not Sans’s fault. He takes a breath, but Red beats him to the punch.

“i’m gonna take a look atcha downstairs,” Red says soft as a marshmallow. Sans’s face changes without his permission.

“uh, _why_?”

Red’s sigh weighs a ton, and he looks away.

“firsties can tear it.”

“that wasn’t no fucking _firsties_ -” he starts, but loses steam when Red jerk-shakes his skull.

“you get a big pinch when i put my cock in?”

Sans scowls, opens his mouth to say how he moved the flappy bits. Then he remembers the other thing.

He frowns and grabs his own bare (and noticeably not leaking) crotch immediately. Sans’s genitalia changed a little once he started using it, but that’s years(decades) under the bridge...for the _outside_. Firsties on stuff meant to come off left a thin place where it happens, and some that knot or flare twinged (or freaked him out) the first go. Most don’t, but there’s potential for an ordeal when they do. He didn’t know puss-puss _had_ a thing, or he might’ve waited til he wasn’t shithammered to go for it.

But...eh, whatever. It’s not like it wouldn’t have at some point, and this was more than worth it. Sans’s concern dissipates; Red’s doesn’t, so Sans goes to make his junk emerge for routine inspection. Red leans up and covers his fingers, wants to do it for him.

“i know where to look,” he says, as if Sans somehow wouldn’t, but he decides to let Red do what he needs to do. His expertise gets Sans’s skeleton business to come out for not-sex reasons quicker than Sans can himself, and he uses a motion like the cloth flip to turn it inside out. He gets a weird look on his face as he plies it carefully.

“problem?” Sans asks.

“nah, i didn’t even split ya,” Red says, the weird look increasing. “jus’ a lil bruise, sweetheart.” A featherlight touch. “….right here,” Red breathes. Sans starts thinking how Red looks…. like he wants to throw it a tea party or something? Gonna put his delicate blob-flower in a cute outfit, and…. Sans clenches his jaw against a giggle, then harder to keep in a yawn. Sans is drunk, sleepy...and yeah, a little sore.

But Red’s sweating like a politician, and Sans vastly prefers to get him squared away before he hits the sack.

“why are you an idiot?” he asks quietly once he lets Sans’s blob go home.

Red sags.

“i didn’t think about how it was firsties, cause i fucked you a buncha times already,” he whispers eventually. “i woulda gone hard if you ain’ta asked for it easy.”

Sans has a sudden, unwelcome flush of insight. More pinches than what he got, and yeah. Sans might’ve been upset. He would have expected Red to put it together. _T_ _hey_ hadn’t done it that way before, so of course Sans had just plain never stuck a dick up there.

Not a real one at least. The second the technicality presents itself, Sans grabs right on and plasters it over his disquiet.

“so? i fuck it however i want on my own time.” Which isn’t very hard, but Red has no way to know that.

Red fixes him with a stare, his expression calling up an uncomfortable memory. (The first time Sans’s knot got clamped by a partner was way different than squeezing it himself. He’d been warned that most people don’t do it that way, because it would hurt his dick. That hadn’t held the weight it should have, when nothing ever had before.)

And even when this got good, it hadn’t been like when Sans fucks himself. It was good how it is when _Red_ fucks him, then maybe a little better. Sans never used the inside with partners before Red, so he always just took it how Red seems to like it best: blob style. Good starting point, but it’s obvious now they like this more. Even if Sans is weird about bottoming. But…

Oh. Right. Red is weird about _topping_ , and if Sans wasn’t drunk, he’d have thought of that before they even started. Red expected Sans to consider his feelings, too. Instead Sans had immediately started grilling him about it.

Sans sighs, rubbing a socket with the heel of his hand.

“ok. how bout from now, no firsties when we’re drunk.”

“yeah,” Red whispers. “maybe, uh. say something. even if we ain’t.”

“sure thing,” Sans says quickly. No skin off his ass, all good, talkshow over, naptime now.

“ya said you sucked plenty a dicks,” Red grunts, and Sans’s browbones fly up to heaven. “you use’ta fuck deep with yours?”

He means _before_ , and it takes Sans a second to recover. Red doesn’t talk about this shit, except apparently he _does_. Well, if Red thinks he’s gonna find out if other fucks have been Sans’s firsties tonight, he’s got another thing coming.

“uh huh,” Sans says cautiously. “never heard back anything about pinches.”

Maybe that’s just skeletons. Or might only be dumbasses like Sans, trying to force a size mismatch like a horny bunny. Makes him wonder about Red, but Sans isn’t gonna ask.

“you know i done everything there is ta do,” Red rumbles quietly anyhow. If Sans wanted to argue, he could. No way anyone ever fucked Red like Sans does, because their junk’s unique. “made good money, and…spent my share.”

“i imagine you did,” Sans says mildly. “i sure as hell can’t complain.”

His smile slips when Red makes a frustrated noise, and he does another of his things. Puts Sans’s hands over his mouth and holds them there, like keeping him quiet lets him say what he needs to. Still doesn’t seem like he’s upset _with_ Sans, so he lets it slide.

“i’m trying to say…if _i_ was the one payin’, Red manages tightly, “…told my sweetie that’s how i wanted it. like just now.”

Sans moves his browbones up and down salaciously. Sadly, it’s wasted on Red’s averted gaze.

“i did _stupid shit_ cause a that,” Red rasps. “i got played like a fuckin’ sucker! i let em take a piece, forgot ta hold down what was _mine_. you should know whose collar you got on, sansy. foolish bitch, thass who. ‘cause what i gave you tonight was all i was _thinkin_ ’ with.”

Now Red’s sweating like a politician’s _lawyer_.

“well?” Red chokes. Then he bothers looking at Sans’s expression. As in, what he can see of it with four fucking hands over his mouth, Sans’s under Red’s. He’s really worked up over something… and scared of how Sans will react. Red flushes furiously and yanks their hands away.

Sans grunts with pleasure, _finally_ scratching his ass. Red’s wipe-fu might’ve missed a spot. He’s also staring at Sans like he’s waiting to find out whether he’s getting his dick chopped _off_ , so Sans rummages around in his mushy mind for something to say about the opposite of a problem.

“well, we can probably jus’ do it that way from now when i want you to fuck me,” he says, “since it worked out pretty good, and you got some kinda kink for it.”

Red stares at him.

He adds, “i came really hard, dunno if you noticed. i mean. don’t get me wrong. i care that you’re flipping your shit over something, but if your dick gets you off that easy and i don’t have to sit on a maxi pad after, i don’t really see the downside.”

Red’s expression melts to incredulity.

“downside’s i just toldja i’m a _sucker_ who thinks with his _cock,_ fuckface! that’s who you got lookin’ out fer you!”

“…wow,” Sans drawls lazily, scratches his ass again. “i guess the shocking revelation that _you’re horny_ is gonna take some time to really sink in,” he muses. “might be wondering why you’re only breaking it to me now after all this time of fucking you three times a goddamn day.”

This might be one of those ideas that Red keeps locked up in his head, where it grows its own heads like a hydra and ferments into an actual problem. That’s where 99% of Red’s problems _are_ these days _…_ which in Sans’s sympathetic opinion, is the absolute worst place to have one. Problems other places can be _avoided_.

“i’m a chickenshit, sansy,” Red whispers. “i thought...i dunno. you’d try and pull one over. use it against me or something.”

Sans takes a deep breath and lets it out slow.

“… _red_ ,” Sans says softly, earnestly. “baby.”

He strokes Red’s scarred face with his own smooth hand.

“i’ll use it against you if i don’t feel like payin’ for my own fuckin’ _burger_ one day. i dunno who you think you’re dealing with, here.”

Red expression morphs slowly to something else.

Sans traces the jagged line of his lower teeth with a thumb, secretly begging it to turn into the sadistic grin he knows and loves. The one that means he can conk out and have it be tomorrow already.

“i’ll beg for your dick ass-up in front of everyone if it means you’ll break down the stand for me,” Sans whispers passionately, then finally fails to keep in the yawn. It sounds like a long, warbling howl, and morphs into a laugh.

“gonna do it just like that,” Sans wheezes. “~whhh _oa_ h~, R~ed, gimme your cock _please_ , i _ne_ ee _e_ _ed_ it-” Red shuts him up with a kiss, and Sans gets a kiss. Everyone wins.

…He thought, but Red pulls back with that big-feelings look again. And _these_ big feelings are pretty mixed.

Sans holds his grin in a deathgrip, brandishing its gleam in front of the deep wibble in his soul. No lies here, just a few _humerus_ truths to reassure him that Sans’s extortions will be predictable and petty. It’s not life and death, just fun and foreplay. Nothing serious. Red’s braced for all of his choices, needs, and relationships having stakes so high Sans doesn’t care to imagine, so he doesn’t try to. Instead he just reminds Red he’s got a chubby little armful of problems right here in the present, which is his own fault for deciding to fall in love with _Sans_.

Now _that’s_ his problem.

Sans winks, ready to cash out of this convo and exit stage left for some shuteye, nice and crisp.

“you’re so full of shit i could taste it,” Red growls, grudging admiration in his candied-gravel voice. “do ya like taking my dick or not?”

It punches a flabbergasted huff out of Sans. Sweat tickles his skull, and his face burns with embarrassment over Red actually calling him out. What Sans had said had been _true_ , dammit, and it had done its work to reassure Red. But….he’s not giving Sans his _out_. Sans quails under the cumulative weight of Red being _earnest_ at him all fucking night, and he scrabbles for the smallest shred of sincerity Red will accept.

“sure,” Sans says, then flushes even harder. There’s short change, and then there’s spitting in someone’s hand. Red’s dangerously flat expression speaks volumes.

“i guess,” Sans tries faintly, but that’s even worse, and Red’s eyes flare crimson with something close to real anger. Angry at _Sans_.

With a low dart of panic, Sans reaches for a shortcut as automatic as someone else might shrink back. Sans set himself up for this like a bigger fool than Red ever claimed to be, and he figures out what’s coming too late to dodge. Red has Sans’s face sandwiched tenderly between his scarred palms in less than a blink, and Sans has to close his sockets. Craggy, sharp thumbs caress beneath them with merciless gentleness.

The question was a trap. Red opens an even scarier one, his bracing inhale making its serrated edges audible.

“i ain’t lookin’ ta split yer peach twice a week, sansy,” Red murmurs. “or at _all_ , if it ain’t your thing. your mouth’s the best i ever had, it’s just...”

Sans shudders despite himself; he’s the best _Red’s_ ever had? He’s just gonna fucking ~lay that on him, right here, right _now_?

“red,” Sans whispers, a plea for mercy he knows won’t fly.

This is exactly how Sans got Red to move in with him, and turns out the trap’s not as satisfying when it catches _you_. Red’s done playing. Sans is a dumbass who decided to pet the cat’s belly, thinking he could just pull his hand back scot-free. Trying to escape with a grin and a wink just activated Red’s predator instinct, and his _real_ claws along with it.

Red sighs into his stubborn silence, doggedly continuing.

“you gotta tell me if you liked it in there, cause….i _don’t_ , okay?” Sans keeps a whimper inside as Red’s exhale tickles his face. Red dislikes plenty of things, but he never _admits_ it. Not sex things, at least. “it don’t…hurt, i jus’ don’ like it in my cunt. there was a time… i mighta acted like i did, but not anymore.”

Red’s admission is an apology for hiding an (apparently) important facet of his sexuality, sure. Could explain the rest of _why_ , if Red feels like a hypocrite who wants to dish it out, but can’t take it (as opposed to a normal fucking person with preferences). But the bottom line is, Red’s going to keep doling out honest answers until he gets one back. “No big deal” won’t cut it, because it’s a big deal to _Red_. He won’t settle for less than Sans _acting_ like it. Red showed his belly, and he’s not going to let it go until Sans shows his own in turn.

With Red holding on like this, even a shortcut to the bottom of the ocean won’t shake him. Sans considers it anyhow. Maybe underwater, he won’t be able to-

“look, i know ya ~ _came hard_ ,” Red continues, interrupting Sans’s brilliant plot. “i was there, which is how i know it put ya _off_ , too! and that’s what’s gettin’ under my skin, sweetheart….can’t stand the idea of you pretending. yer junk does what it does, but that ain’t all there is to it. not with us.”

What the fuck; what the _fuck_. Red never talks like this. Except apparently he _does_ , and Sans hasn’t built up any tolerance for whatever liquor Red’s serving him right now. Goes right to his head, cuts to the heart.

“i c’n tell it bugs ya. i don’t wanna get inside you if it makes you weird in the _head_ , sansy,” Red pleads, invoking his own ‘weird in the head’ moments. How Red needs to go hard to come, but his soul doesn’t always want what his body does. Sans’s sockets scrunch with sudden, unaccustomed anger as Red keeps going. “you d….don’t hafta _do_ that for me, you don’t-”

“i fuckin’ _hate_ how you act like you stole somethin’ whenever you fuck me!” jerks out of Sans, cutting him off. “i don’t give a flying shit how it was before, or who paid for what. you didn’t pick my pocket with your _dick_ , dumbass!”

Sans hates the bass in his voice, and how much he means what he just said. He’s strangling a wad of blanket in his hands, but his twisted face is motionless between Red’s rough, implacable palms. The guilt that crushes Sans’s anger 99.9% of the time bears down again hard, but words keep squeaking out. Apparently Sans sounds more like Red when he’s pissed off. Pisses him off all over again, if he’s honest.

“hate your stupid guilty mug followin’ me around the fuckin’ place, like you’re slipping back a 20 you skimmed off the till. it doesn’t work like that!”

Red’s surprised huff tickles his face.

“it makes ya bleed, sansy! gotta let me take care of you, cause i’m yer sweetie!” Red’s fingers spasm, then still. “i mean...i know yer... _my_ sweetie, _real_ one. you’re mine, and i know ya let me cause you _wanna_ do that for me, but ‘m sayin’ you don’ _have_ to! that ain’t part of the deal!”

His sockets are shut, but Sans still sees red. The joke squeezes his skull in its merciless fist, but something other than hysterical laughter comes out for a change.

“i don’t do it for _you_ ,” he hisses, just like when they fight for foreplay. “i do it cause i _like_ it!” Guess that’s his actually-angry voice, too. Who knew. “jus’ let me _like_ it,” spills out too before he can grind his teeth closed. At least _just let me love you_ stays behind them. Sockets-closed is getting too dangerous, so Sans opens them again.

He still can’t bear to see how Red likes what his trap caught for him, so he stares at the hooked scar across Red’s sternum and ribs instead. The deep one Sans tries not to think about; the deathblow. This time he reaches out and thumbs it gently, feels its ghost carving into his own body. Red had been clutching that wound, a hair from death when they met. He _needed_ him, and Sans responded with mercy. As if his soul knew that Red would be the only person who can make Sans react like this. Because Sans only ever gets truly pissed off….at himself.

Guess that’s it. Red _is_ Sans, so how the fuck can he get it so _wrong_?

Red thinks he gets more than he gives, and that it’s not fair or something. He always thinks that, and Sans doesn’t care. He _doesn’t._ It’s not a big deal…except when it is. When Red decides how Sans feels _for_ him, his self-denial denying Sans right along with him. However happy Red feels, he’s always convinced he’s stealing some equivalent value from Sans.

Red acts like they’re passing the love back and forth, and Red thinks Sans’ll leave him if he hogs it too long. But Red _is._ He’s hogging the _giving,_ and he’s cheating Sans out of what he signed on for. He wants everything. Red messy and chaotic, Red losing his cool, his control, giving Sans what he’s _owe_ _d_ , and Sans is pressing his thumb into the scar, convinced if he can just _feel_ it, if he can just finally _remember_ he’ll-

“sans,” Red says, a single raw syllable that turns Sans’s anger to dust in an instant. He didn’t hurt him. But neither of them are sure if he wanted to or not.

All the models Sans uses to gauge the shape of their life together shatter like mirrors, every shard reflecting his own frozen, bullshit grin back to him. Showing him a shattered version of Sans that needs Red to be as fucked up as Sans is. Needs him out of control, messy and hectic. Someone that needs Sans to usher him safely into a better life, with a better partner, better prospects, and a sense of direction. Safely away from Sans.

Sans shudders, bows his skull in defeat. Red still holds it in his hands, since he never let go for a second. Red won’t let go, and Sans can’t hold on. They’re a matched set of broken idiots in love, and these are apparently the consequences. Their relationship is whatever they decide it is, but neither of them have any clue what that _means_ , or how to do it.

“m’sorry,” Sans whispers hoarsely.

“didn’t hurt me,” Red says, but Sans burns with guilt and shame nonetheless. The way they touch each other matters as much as what they say. Guess the liquid courage wore off, just like it always does. Between the water, the hours passed, and the amount of sweating they’ve been doing, Sans has to admit they’re approaching sobriety.

“yeah, well.” Sans clears emotion-thickened magic in his skull. “me neither, but...no firsties when we’re drunk,” he repeats limply.

Sans doesn’t give a shit about firsties. But it finally occurred to him that what they did tonight was something _Red_ wasn’t ready for. That’s what he was trying to explain. Red went for it anyhow because he was drunk, and because Sans asked him to. Sans trusts Red to take care of him, and Red trusts him right back. Yeah… it’s almost like they’re in love or something. And maybe they forgot that for a minute, both of them too obsessed with playing their hands close to their chest, shoving the kitty across the table til it fell on the floor.

Sheesh.

“you don’t have to do stuff just cause i want to either,” he says quietly.

“yeah...well.” He says it just like Sans, but Red makes a soft little huff after. “….no shit,” he says, some of his usual bluster returning. “can’t tell _me_ what ta do, you ain't my real dad.” That’s so reassuring, Sans blurts out one more truth to settle the score.

“we can both like something at the same time.”

His exhale wavers when Red strokes his face soothingly. He hears him.

“okay,” Red whispers. “just, w...you meant what ya said?”

Sans still can’t meet his eyes, but his soul flutters just as hard as it had under that stupid fucking disco ball in the rink.

“…i already want you to fuck me again, if ‘m honest. you’re no slouch.”

“you ain’t said an honest word in yer life.”

And now Sans _has_ to look at him, as much as he couldn’t before. It’s the sort of thing Red usually says, which Sans is desperate to hear at this point. Sans shudders to see that Red finally fucking believes him. Yeah, that’s his baby, alright. The more Red wants something to be true, the more resistant he is to believing it. His eyes are swollen with his weird Red-feelings, and Sans knows what they are.

“i’m honest about a few things,” he whispers back, and Red’s eyes wibble with a nanosecond of anxiety. They both know it was there, and it means Red saw Sans’s _love you_ buried ten layers deep.

Red already stole all Sans’s horses along with his horseshit, but Sans slams the barn door all the harder for it.

“welp,” Sans grunts, “if you need me to suck your dick like a binky while we sleep, better get it out now. cause i’m going to sleep with or without-”

Sans’s plan to get another kiss works, as does the one to get Red settled. _Finally_.

Red gets on top, moves Sans’s limbs to accommodate him, then clonks his heavy skull down on his neck. Sans’s soul pangs sweetly. Red used to do that even before the collar was there. It’s nice to think maybe he wanted it to be, even then, but he waited for Sans to be ready. Well, the least Sans can fucking do is return the favor.

“hey, red?” Sans whispers, only about 25% expecting an answer.

“whatcha need now, bitch?”

“i call that thing puss-puss.” Red told him about Eggbert ages ago, but Sans…well, he’s _Sans_. “….yeah, i name em, too.” So Red can ask for puss-puss if he wants. “i, uh….how ‘bout yours?”

“you gonna laugh?” Red mumbles, face buried in the pillow.

“yeah,” Sans admits softly.

Red turns his face just enough to peer with a single, blurry crimson eye.

“… that there was a lil piece i call john _thomas_ travolta.”

***

The next night, Sans’s dooting stool at Grillby’s is just as comfy as ever.

It’s a monster night, which tend to be more crowded than otherwise. There’s a cover at the door that Sans gets half of, and Grillby loosens up some of the restrictions. A low haze of magic smoke from various patrons’ intoxicants of choice gives the light a quality both seedy, and in Sans’s opinion, romantic. Since it’s magic, it doesn’t leave the lingering stink of surface smokables, and there’s no risk of secondhand highs.

There’s no stage or dais. Just Sans slouched in a cleared corner with Trusty Rusty, providing some mellow aural ambience blending with the friendly chatter and clink of glass. To most, Sans’s trombone is pleasant background noise, the tunes vaguely familiar without ringing any bells. Just as well, since Sans doesn’t play any of those. Arrangements for single instruments tend to follow the vocal melodies, but Sans does his own thing. He likes to switch between the different instrumental portions, integrating his own cadences and flourishes.

Some of them are so far out there they’re pretty much Sans’s compositions at this point, but he doesn’t claim any of them. He doesn’t record himself, either. The only way to hear him is, well. Like this. Here. Or occasionally, at one of Mettaton’s hotels. The setlist is never the same, since there isn’t one. It’s all off the cuff, whatever he feels like. Sans plays cover concerts that few people realize _are_ covers, but a surprising amount come to listen anyhow.

Then there’s the secret subtext concert that comes into existence the second Red walks in. He’s got his brother with him, Edge’s hand on Red’s cocked arm like a debutante, and they make themselves comfy in a booth near the back. Even from here he can tell they painted each others’ skulls before arriving. Edge has a heavier hand around Red’s sockets than Sans does, and they tint the joints of their mandibles and facial scars with the color of their magic, mimicking how it looks when they’re worked up in any sort of way. The Fell style gives Edge’s angular features a fey, vulpine cast, and Red’s so fucking radiant in crimson, purple, and gold shimmer that Sans is uncharacteristically glad he remembered to take a shower.

When he had woken that “morning” about four in the afternoon, Red had taken off already. But there’d been a care package left on a stuffed animal next to him, the kind Red always does up when he has something he needs to do before Sans wakes up. Said he ‘never leaves the pillow cold’ when Sans asked about it once. In this case, it’d been a theater box of junior mints holding down five pieces of the paper money humans use around here. All five pieces said “five”; Sans appreciated the symmetry. Kinda romantic.

Sans had eaten the candy in bed, put the money in his phone (which he realized amounted to half of Red’s trip-and-fall fridge scam earnings; Sans blushed recalling how he had “helped”), got cleaned up, and by then it was time for warmup. Considering Edge and Stretch are in one of their off-again phases, Sans figured it had to do with his brother and gave Red some space. Looks like his hunch was right on.

Red aims his razor grin and hooded sockets at Sans for a moment before Grillby comes over to take their orders. Afterwards, he flickers the focus in his left eye as a mock-wink, pats his bro on the shoulder. Edge shrugs it off with a haughty moue and sad sockets, and Sans’s shoulders ease. Red didn’t bail because they argued, and Sans understands to the core how brothers always come first. Everything’s fine, or close enough that it will be. Sans draws a deep breath, lets the feel of love-magicked leather against his vertebrae soothe him. In the silence of his heart, he decides tonight’s concert is for Red.

Sans uses his mouth and tongue to force air through his teeth, occasionally inserting a tendril of magic through his grin into the mouthpiece to shape the flow of air. Sans pushes out a slow vibrato deep enough his pelvis practically rattles on the cushion. He sees Red’s painted sockets narrow with recognition. The tint on his scars and joints gains an organic shimmer; his natural flush enhanced by it even in the dim, changeable light of the bar. Bingo. This is a sexy song, and Red always responds to Sans’s playing. Says he feels it in his bones. Red’s initial flush calms as he grins shamelessly, licking his teeth a little more than he needs to after taking a sip of the drink Grillby brings him. Sans doesn’t mind how Red sexualizes everything; he’s just more comfortable with those terms. He giggles internally when he sees Red’s tossing back a piña colada, wonders if Red has plans to get caught in the rain later.

Well, _t_ _h_ _is_ song always reminds Sans of Red’s obscenely addictive kisses, and their first time he kept thinking about last night.

Heh. What’s that thing Papyrus kept chattering about last week? Some article, “Love languages.” Welp, Red’s love language is definitely sex, even when what he really wants is something else. If he’s honest, Sans likes the game of trying to figure out what it is. He knows now what he didn’t know then, and this tune reminds Sans of how Red used sex to show Sans how he felt about him. Red gave him a little peek at his secret heart, just a taste of his loving to keep Sans’s skittish ass in the seat. Made Sans the one who had to come get more, let him give chase long enough to get him used to the idea.

The idea of _what_ , exactly….well, Sans can’t say he’s entirely sure, even now.

Red refers to Sans as his “sweetie” to other Fell monsters, including Edge. It’s also what Red used to be. The term is the same whether the relationship is permanent or temporary-for-hire, because apparently the role is the same. Some ‘verses look down on hired partners, but those attitudes are rare among Fell monsters. Sans has been collared for long enough for most of them to loosen up around him, and Sans can’t count the times he’s heard a scoff about someone that looks like they “need their sweetie.”

They both pretend it was how Red claims: money-for-sex. That’s a lie, and that’s not really what a sweetie is. It’s not something that anyone can do, either. A collar that works on _everyone_ is a lot harder to make (and uniquely expensive if you can’t) than a collar that works on one person. And it had to.

Trust was few, far between, or fake in Red’s underground. All too many monsters _had_ no one to patch them up after shit went south. No one to feed em, tie up loose ends, talk to them, touch them, keep watch while they slept, and physically defend them if necessary. Flipping your shit and icing the person you just hired to take care of you isn’t really an ideal outcome for anyone, so sweetie-collars were a must. Red had been wearing his when they met, in fact. For some reason, those have spikes. Sans’s is plain, with a buckle instead of snaps.

If you knew shit was about to go down, you hired a sweetie beforehand to patch you up if they could, conduct your funeral if they couldn’t, and function as a next of kin if you were incapacitated. They were paying for what they needed; at least, however much of it that the sweetie in question wanted to give. Red’s reputation had been that he gave his marks exactly what they needed whether or not they wanted it…but that he also had ways of _making_ you want it.

Red used to be a _spouse_ for hire, and based on the chatter Sans has heard, he was the best.

Sans really didn’t know Red used to hire sweeties himself before last night...but it makes an embarrassing amount of sense, and it’s no wonder he thinks in transactional terms. It must feel like he’s doing for free what he used to do for pay. Thing is, sweeties also take care of your dependents while you’re laid up, if you have any. And from what he said, trying to get that from the other direction hadn’t exactly worked out well for Red. Sans knows what Red means when he says stuff like “what’s mine.” Neither Red nor Edge have ever told the story of how Edge’s socket got cracked, but Sans is a skeleton who knows what he’s looking at. That scar was made when Edge was still in stripes.

Love, sex, support, or comfort, each is something you either get or you give. And Red always acts like he’s _in_ the red. Trying to build up preemptive credit with Sans and hoarding his relationship-points for a rainy day, and terrified there won’t be enough when he needs to cash in. Looking at him now, Red’s razor grin is firmly in place. But he leans against his brother, eyes big and blurred with a soft longing as he watches Sans play.

Maybe Red just doesn’t know how to hold on to something he didn’t purchase, salvage, or steal.

Well, Sans knows when it’s time to change the mood. Red’s pensive expression turns to snickering, because Sans just blatted and blooped the first bar of Big Me by the Foo Fighters.

Red sure had been worried he’d be too much for Sans. Too loud and messy and fucked up and all the other stuff that Sans loves about him. Then he fell into Sans’s abyss of need, and hopefully figured out he should have worried about the opposite. Sans filches Red’s clothes, snoops through his hoard, chats up his old associates, pesters his brother, and generally makes an absolute nuisance of himself.

 _But it’s you/_ _I fell into,_ Sans tootles, trying on Red’s feelings. They fit perfectly, maybe a little more room to breathe. Feels just like this morning, when he slipped on Red’s butter-soft, threadbare band shirt. Red’s sockets narrow in amused acknowledgement at the “fell” pun.

Yeah, Red might not know how to keep him. He’s not wrong to be worried, since Sans never learned how to stay. A little ironic, considering his reputation’s truly for the _dogs_. And the bunnies, slimes, and elementals…honestly, there are more than have let Sans show them a good time than haven’t.

Sans made sure never to get in over his head, maintaining the situation to make sure everyone had a real good time, then dipped out with a wink and a joke to leave em laughing. He didn’t think about it much, and when he did, he always thought he’d been kind to spare them his complications. It’s only since falling for Red he realized...it had also been cruel. The knotting firsties has been with a sweet, understanding partner who eased him through it, turning something painful and a little scary into something Sans had loved so much, he wanted to go again before it was even over.

He’d dumped them the next day instead, because Sans couldn’t bear anyone having seen him lose his chill. That chill got colder and colder over the years. Always giving what he thought of as his best, never letting anyone get close enough to see behind his eyes, never taking anything in return except free passage as he ran out. By the time he met Red, Sans was freezing.

Red’s expression softens at the lilt of _Fox in the Snow_ , and Grillby heads to the back for a while despite the crowded bar. Maybe it reminds him of Sans, too. You win some, you lose everything. That’s just how Sans played his hand: kept his cool when the flames burned too high.

Sans shuts his sockets as a hot little pit opens up in his chest, but it doesn’t really help. It’s harder not to see the truth in his mind with his hands and concentration occupied with playing. Sans, with his winning and losing bullshit. He wishes being aware of it helped more. Even trying as hard as he can to think of solutions where “everyone wins”….well.

It wasn’t long before he started thinking of ways to ‘win more’, or not trying at all because he’s too afraid to fall short. Always trying to get the last word before dipping out, except those days are done and over. He doesn’t know why he spends so much time fighting himself, always ends up dragging Red into it. He _wants_ to be with Red, for as long as he’ll put up with him.

Red, for his part, promised Sans _forever_. And Sans, for his, has absolutely every intention of holding him to that. A rash, reckless promise in the heat of the moment…Red made promises impossible for anyone to keep, and Sans plans to collect no matter how long it takes. If he was looking for a hail mary to keep Sans at his side….hoo boy, he found one.

The problem is, Sans doesn’t know _how_ to stick around. He doesn’t know what that looks like, to wake up every “morning” and just….what? Stare at each other? Fight until they hate each other instead? Have Red finally see him for who he really is, and realize he made a mistake too late to change anything? Sans’s tongue isn’t always glib, he’s not always fun to be around. He gets into his moods, and no one should have to be around him then. He doesn’t even want to be around _himself_. So he bails, heads to Grillby’s, runs and hides, might end up stars know where doing stars know what, but….he took the collar, knowing what it means. He promised to _stay_.

So he ties himself in knots so he can’t escape, overthinking every little thing until he and Red are hopelessly tangled. Provoking strange, half-nonsense conflicts like the one last night until neither one of them is sure what it’s even _about_ anymore. It’s the only thing Sans can think of to keep himself _here_ , where he belongs.

Sans looks up again, realizing he’s doing it again now. And from Red’s softly pensive expression, he knows it. Funny thing is, just looking at him in the golden and neon barlight….well. There’s always one thing that can cut right through the gordian knot of Sans’s bullshit, and he’s looking right at it. All he has to do is let him in…which is always a fight with _himself_ , one he can’t seem to stop dragging Red into. Nevertheless, Sans fills his eyes with Red, and his smile isn’t as hard to pick back up as he thought it would be.

He lets the final note of _A Long December_ spend its bittersweet hope, then works the slide through four sinuous notes that make both of Red’s eyelights flicker for real. He falters when Red turns his face discreetly into his brother’s lapel, but Sans recovers quickly, and doubts anyone noticed the note wiggle. He squints at Edge’s expression; Edge just stares back archly. But his jagged face is incongruously soft as he pretends his brother isn’t having some kind of emotion into his perfectly tailored jacket. Well, his brother _is_ the one who tailored the absorbent, spike-shouldered blazer in question. Edge’s familial loyalty is absolute, and Sans has a feeling it runs deep as his own. Sans might’ve talked himself out of this number if he’d known Red would react so strongly to the song he’d skated to last night, so he supposes he’s glad he didn’t.

Then Red pulls away and leaves the booth. Sans’s soul twinges once more, wondering if he fucked everything back up again. They hold into each others’ gaze as Red approaches, a staring contest so intense it’s as if the rest of the bar slowly disappears. Well, Sans is nothing if not stubborn, as Red knows intimately by now. He extends a tendril of magic through his teeth for extra control, adds some flirty trills to the bouncy ABBA tune Red secretly loves.

The moment stretches until Red’s standing right in front of him. He’s got his chin up to stare him down, shitkicker boots planted wide like he’s getting ready to throw hands, or maybe just slap away the trombone and squat in Sans’s lap in public. Neither is out of the question. In fact, he’s so close now that if he had nuts, Sans would be whacking them with his slide. He considers it, but instead Sans just waits to see what the obnoxious fuckface of his dreams is going to do. He doesn’t flinch when Red darts sideways quick as a snake, kicking another stool abruptly close to Sans’s.

Then, of all things, he pulls out a fucking _saxophone_ and sits down _next_ to him. Its sinuous complexity gleams in the multicolored light, and Red aims his sadist’s grin directly into Sans’s slack surprise. Red cradles his instrument expertly and sets the reed at his teeth, his gnarled right hand poised low over the keys by his hip.

He waits a bar, then joins right in with a low harmony.

Sans is a pro and keeps it smooth, but he’s flabbergasted. He had no idea Red played anything. He’d even asked him flat out ages ago and he’d said _no_ _pe_ , popping the ‘p’ between his teeth smooth as…

Greased eggs.

Yeah, okay. Red still hides shit from him, and he always could. Who knows, maybe it wasn’t a lie. Maybe he learned to play in the meantime or something. Plausible deniability. But he handles his piece as expertly as Sans does, and he’s been playing for decades.

Sans’s shock melts under the onslaught of dulcet notes embellishing and supporting his own, and he narrows his sockets at Red accusingly. Red just winks again, smug as a cat sitting on a bird. Sans changes keys out of nowhere, then switches to the vocal melody. Red follows him effortlessly, and it sounds even better.

That when Sans realizes he’s grinning so hard it’s squeezing his notes, and he forcibly smoothes it back out. It’s still like they’re competing, except….on the same team, now. It keeps getting better, each new twist pushing the other to greater heights, stranger experiments until it’s not _Mama Mia_ anymore, it’s just some frenetic, formless disco-jazz with an increasingly hard edge.

Sans brings up the tail end of whatever this is in a slowing jumble of notes, and that’s when Sans realizes _what_ that rhythm-loop Red keeps adding over Sans’s melody is. He hears the lyrics in his head:

_obey-!_

_your-!_

_mas-ter-!_

He meets Red’s eyes, delighted. They flare big and round and orangey-red, the twin pumpkins that Sans finds so hilariously charming. Red is making a request…and a challenge. Sans takes a deep breath, gets a good handle on his slide, double breathes to make a loud kissy-noise that makes everyone jump, and begins.

Yeah. It’s good to turn the tables on Red for a change. That flicker of surprise means he wasn’t expecting Sans to pick the main riff, but a moment later Sans feels a heavy boot on the floor keeping time. _Master of Puppets_ doesn’t have the most complex bassline ever, but Red’s fingers start flying over the keys, his mouth doing the heavy lifting to create something close to the wall of noise in the original to shore up Sans’s sharp slidework. He looks down. Red must’ve went back and got his boots from the rink where they’d abandoned them. He looks back up, wondering if he had to pay for-

Sans nearly falls off his stool as the hard beat of a drum sounds behind him. A discordant squeak mars his perfection, and he turns to see Edge laughing at him. He’s sitting behind them with a delicate two-piece traveler’s drum kit, just a bass and a snare. Sans was so caught up in playing he hadn’t noticed his little corner is now crammed with _three_ people and their instruments. Edge’s knees are bunched up high because of course he’s got six inch heels on, and his maxilla arcs in a pout when Sans waggles his browbones at them. It’s only later that he’ll recall that the paint on Edge’s sockets was smeared a little, as if they’d somehow gotten wet.

He has to admit, the song’s a lot more recognizable with the drums. Edge is already sweating with exertion, and Sans switches parts with Red so he can take a look around the bar.

Amazing.

Everyone… absolutely _hates_ this.

The soft chatter and low bar noises are now drowned out by shrill, brassy thrash metal pouring out of the corner. Even Sans is a little impressed by their volume; their stuff isn’t even mic’d. This is all sheer unbridled enthusiasm, harshing everyone’s buzz. Technically brilliant it might be, but from the sour looks headed their way, it’s more than wasted on this crowd. And _Red_...oh god, Red is radiant. He is in his element, annoying as many people as possible as he can while sitting down.

 _Master of Puppets_ peters off eventually, allowing Edge to go into some kind of drum n bass fiasco without any bass to speak of. Gives them a moment to catch their breath and take a long, lingering look at each other. They don’t try and speak over the noise, just look. Maybe this doesn’t have to be so fucking complicated. Or maybe it can be, but only when they want it to be.

Sans always overthinks, or doesn’t think at all. Maybe it’s about time he finds a different medium.

He starts up one of his more esoteric covers, one that’s basically his own. Red once again waits a bar, then another. There goes his boot again, and Edge starts up a slinky jazz beat that you can play pretty much anything to. Sans latches onto it, then starts orbiting it. When Red joins in, it marries the beat and the trombone perfectly. That’s when it happens. The strange feeling Sans gets once in a while when he plays, like light is filling him up. Like he’s breathing smoke motes of it in through he air, taking it and turning it into different colors, then letting it pour through his hands where it becomes sounds. It’s easy to lead Red and Edge into a new section of his formless jam, but it’s surprising to hear how they then _give_ it form. Making it a real solid tune, something Sans can stand on. Now and then Red repeats a passage, shows Sans it’s right where they left it, a nice refrain to lean on whenever they need it. The bar disappears again. All there is now is music.

Red is…showing him something. Something like a _path_ , setting a piece of it down in front of Sans, then waiting. Sans step onto it hesitantly….but he steps because he wants to, and because he trusts Red. Sans firms his grip on the slide thoughtfully, sprays another new section of notes into the air to see what Red does. That’s what it’s like, then. This is how it works.

Red repeats the phrase twice two octaves lower, then messes with the melody some more. A harmony, maybe? It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible either. And more than anything, it is fun. Sans finds himself interested and engaged, and it’s not something he has to fight. It’s a give and take, it’s learning and doing and just letting himself exist here the moment. It feels….safe.

This is something they’re inventing together. They can meld their styles into something new and unique, played to the helpful beat of their friends and family.

Sans’s concerts are meant to be ephemeral, nothing scheduled more than a day or two in advance. You see him when you see him, every show’s date scribbled as “tomorrow” on receipt paper tacked to the bulletin board.

 _Sans ‘Plausible Deniability’ The Skeleton! One Night Only_!

Sans supposes this is what it means, then. This is how you stay.

You take it one day at a time, and One Night Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about what Mama Mia sounds like on brass, [here's an arrangement where the trombone's pulling a lot of weight](https://youtu.be/ImMtZYcm-GY)
> 
> And [here is Master of Puppets with a full brass band, main riff on trombone with sax carrying the middle.](https://youtu.be/2RCHMuNv_HU)
> 
> The rest of the concert is the playlist from The Long Haul ;)


End file.
